


Who’ll sign the Death Certificate?

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Big Brother Mycroft Holmes, Brother Feels, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Complete, Drabble, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Softie, Oneshot, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: It’s always about life and death situations even during tea and wine when it’s the Holmes brothers.





	Who’ll sign the Death Certificate?

**Author's Note:**

> Something light and heavy. Ahh…it's been a while... please see me in the end xD  
> ~W.G

_“Sherlock, were you hiding a woman in your room?”_

“No, there isn’t a woman in my room, Mycroft. Leave my damn room alone.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear my exact words— _I said ‘were’.”_

“ _I didn’t keep any woman in my room!”_ Sherlock said annoyed as he glared at his older brother who was quietly seated on John’s chair inside the consulting detective’s flat. It was one of those dog days when company of his best friend was lacking in the name of his role as a single father and crime missing highlights for interest so is left in Scotland Yard’s incapable hands that the detective dreadfully found himself in the company of his brother. Mycroft who was wearing his striped gray suit with matching dark blue tie sat crossed legged on the chair with phone at hand, texting.

Sherlock had lost track of time of when Mycroft had arrived he practically forgot he was there until he spoke, and when he did, as it was customary, Sherlock just found him a tad annoying.

“What makes you think I’d harbor a criminal in my room?”

Mycroft flashed him a quick smirk as he glanced at his younger brother. He was holding a tea cup on his delicate hands that Sherlock never remembered serving as he glowered at his older brother from where he sat. He was now made to believe, after relocating to 221B, that Mycroft makes his visit frequent just to really infuriate him.

“I did not label her as a criminal, that’s word from your mouth.”

“She’s a criminal if you think I’m hiding her permanently from your sight.”

“Ah, then there really was a woman?”

“If you count my landlady whose been cleaning my room a _criminal—”_

“Which is an _understatement_ considering what she really is—” Mycroft widened his eyes mockingly.

Sherlock snorted, head leaning on the armchair as he watched his brother.

“You really think she’d hide from you?”

“No. I don’t even think she can last inside your room long without making a scene and throwing your bedding out the window for being so filthy.”

“Hey, you’ve never been in my room.”

“Then I’d like to go and have a look, please.” Mycroft stood up so abruptly and was halfway in the corridor before Sherlock scrambled in front of him using the other doorway. Sherlock was heaving when he straightened in front of his tall brother, thick brows knitted into a frown while Mycroft surveyed him with an eyebrow up his hairline.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asked incredulously, clutching both palm in order to avoid pushing Mycroft back in the living room. He didn’t want his finger prints all over his brother’s clothes—not when Mycroft had practically just invited himself in the detective’s room after Sherlock himself slipped the exact words his brother wanted to hear.

Because that was the thing when Mycroft Holmes, the British Government Head and the most intelligent man the world will never know, is your brother. The constant trapping and manipulation in order to divert conversations in the angle most suitable and favorable to him alone. Sherlock was never spared from his uncanny ability to get what he wants when he wanted to—Mycroft was a prick like that. Actually, Sherlock was his constant target just because he was the younger brother. Sherlock had made himself believe Mycroft does it just to entertain himself.

Mycroft looked innocently back at him and pointed his umbrella on Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“I’m going in. Call it an inspection, brothermine.”

“Inspection my ass, you don’t get to enter my room just cause you feel like it. Go back to your chair.”

Mycroft paused, his already raised eyebrow threatening to disappear to heaven. Then he sighed, “There’s fragrance I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a different _perfume_ that does not belong to your landlady nor your friend from the morgue. I very much doubt that John would actually have the tolerance to its toxic sweetness even if he is involved and invited her in your abode. No, he’s been preoccupied with her daughter. I don’t think John would be allowing her to wear such a strong acid at such an early age. And I also do not believe it is from any of your client, you had been incapable of holding visitors for the last three days judging from your appearance, unwashed hair—god Sherlock, you need to take a proper bath— you’re filthy—and the dust lying on the client’s couch. Has Mrs. Hudson declined her duties?”

“She’s on a holiday.” Sherlock spat, not removing himself from the way. “If you’d been paying attention to my household, you’d know that.”

“Of course I know that, I just want your input no matter how unnecessary to make sure you are aware.” Mycroft shrugged, “I mean, you do tend to lax in your environment during your most lackluster state, you have a bad habit of talking yourself into oblivion without a sense of time. I have been telling you to focus repeatedly but you are just a bad as the Prime Minister—”

“Clearly the most offensive thing you’ve said today!”

“— and thus I have to see on my own that you have not killed yourself while talking to yourself. Ergo, I need to check if you are aware that a woman had been in your room in the last twenty-four hours.”

Sherlock stared hard at his brother. Mycroft returned it with much calmness. Then the detective twisted towards his room, turned the doorknob and held the door open for his brother to check.

“Who is she?” the detective asked sharply when Mycroft slowly walked pass him, eyes taking in the whole room and Sherlock knew his brother would remember every tiny detail he will see. He grounded his teeth, eyes following his brother as Mycroft stepped in the room, eyes glancing left to right. Sherlock ignored the disapproving look on the older Holmes’ face as he asked, “How come I didn’t notice?”

“Because you didn’t care to.” Mycroft said simply, his eyes staying on the bedside table where a photo of him and his brother as children was displayed. Sherlock cleared his throat and the older Holmes continued the tour till he reached one of the windows. He peered at the curtain with body angled far away from exposing himself. “Has it ever occurred to you Sherlock that _she_ had made your senses familiar with the smell slowly so in time it’d register to you as something ‘natural’ in your environment?”

Sherlock clutched the handle of the door. “Who are they and what do they want?”

Mycroft pressed his lips closed as he turned back to his younger brother, his silver eyes glinting. Sherlock read his black expression and narrowed his eyes. “It’s _you._ You’re the one they want?”

Mycroft began sauntering back to the corridor with Sherlock at his heels.

“Mycroft—if they’re this deadly—a”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry your little head.” Mycroft strode directly to one of the living room’s windows and peering at the curtain again. “These assassins are amateurs when it comes to the use of the head even when their hands are as good as their aim. I knew they were around seconds _after_ they were on my tracks.”

“You know who sent them?”

“That’s not even a question.” Mycroft stepped to face his brother with a smirk, “I know all the movements on the board even when pawns considered long dead comes back  from the great beyond.” His eyes flickered dangerously.

Sherlock gaped at his brother. “Mycroft, who the hell are you up to this time—?”

But Sherlock was unable to finish his thoughts as a loud cracking sound of window glasses breaking rang in the air. The younger Holmes’ eyes found the cracked spot on the window at once— _a bullet hole—_ but what had Sherlock reeling was Mycroft dropping on the floor. _Dead._

Sherlock froze. He watched as his brother’s clean gray suit bled from his heart, the small spot quickly turning into a pool of red that dyed everything in his eyes. Sherlock rushed to kneel beside him, holding his older brother but it was too late. Mycroft was gone. Sherlock raised his shaking hands before him and found no blood. Not a trace. He looked down Mycroft’s face but only saw a shadow lying on the floor.

Sherlock hissed as he realized what this was and stood up.

The next thing he knew, he snapped his eyes open from his deep slumber and pulled his body up, shaking in rage. He was inside one of his new dose house with nobody to confirm if he was awake or not. But Sherlock knew he was fully awake from the nightmare just now and didn’t waste time standing up. He grabbed his coat from the broken chair on the corner and swiftly left the building and strode in the darkened street in the middle of the night.

His adrenaline rushing in his system, blood pumping in his head, Sherlock pushed away the hints of exhaustion and fatigue his body was asking him to believe as he hailed a cab. He scratched on his unshaven stubble and glared when he noticed the cab driver staring at him from the rearview mirror. He checked on his phone and found the list of expected people who’d be calling him after two weeks of disappearance. John had messaged him fifty times accompanied with sixty-seven missed calls. Mrs. Hudson had a modest ten calls, no text. Molly was being kind with twenty messages and missed calls while Lestrade only asked if he was alive thru text. Then there was Mycroft’s number. There were only three missed calls and that was a week ago. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

Soon he reached the abominable street he’d always been both loathed and delighted to trespass depending on the mood. He paid the cabby and was on his feet again, crossing the distance of the familiar path way leading to Mycroft’s mansion. Funny how his older brother liked the posh house because of its ancestry, not because of the space. Mycroft never lives in it anyway and only uses the place as one of his rails to go to, in order to complete his routine. Mycroft must have a route heading towards a ‘home’ or hell have a panic attack. At least, Sherlock liked to tease him about that. No, Mycroft have his perks, all geniuses do, but his older brother would be caught dead first before admitting he does.

Sherlock hoped his brother _hasn’t been caught dead_ anyway. He used his access on the large gate, slipping past the trees even though he has the card Mycroft had insisted he used rather than tamper on his security measures. He closed the distance to the court, then was banging the door open at the back door. He reached the wooden floored corridor and was already on the stairs when the old clock in the hallway chimed midnight. Sherlock ignored it and passed more portraits, locating Mycroft’s room at the end of the second landing where an armored knight stood. Sherlock turned the knob and the door opened in the dark room. His eyes fell on the silhouette of the bed.

“Mycroft?” he called, sprinting towards the bed and clawing on the bedsheet. “Hey, Mycroft?” He glanced up at the glass window where the curtain half hung. There was nothing in the darkness. There was also no Mycroft on the bed.

Sherlock froze. His brain was still a little foggy and the room was quite dark. He couldn’t figure out when Mycroft had last slept here but he was sure there had to be someone in the room— his brain was telling him there was.

A click behind him and a lamp turning on made the younger Holmes look sharply around. His eyes fell on his older brother seated on the comfortable armchair with legs crossed, the reflection of the light on his grim face made his expression quite dark. He was only wearing a waistcoat a top his white shirt and tie, his coat left hanging neatly at the back of the chair. Rather than amused, Mycroft Holmes looked livid.

“Finally out of your hole and back to home, brothermine?”

But Sherlock could care less about what Mycroft was mumbling, his hearing was still bad and as slow as his brain. He was upon his brother in seconds after quick steps, hands on his older brother’s neck absentmindedly running his hands next to his heart to make himself believe it was functioning. _Tap, tap, tap._ No blood came from his chest.

All through this and Mycroft let him without a word but simply an exasperated look. Until Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and slumped on the floor, his back sliding at the side of the chair.

 _“You prick.”_ Sherlock growled with asperity without looking at his brother. “You utter _prick.”_

Mycroft fixed his collar and tie, lips thin. “It got you back, didn’t it?”

Sherlock glared up as Mycroft did the same, looking down at him. Then the consulting detective buried his face on his palms, inhaling more air as he tried to cool his head and regulate his breathing pattern. He had to do this to think clearly of what just happened because he just knew— _Mycroft just had him again._

“You planted the idea in my mind,” Sherlock began saying more to himself but his eyes glinted, “that you had assassins surrounding you, didn’t you? When did you do that?”

“Just had to alter some habits, the usual.” Mycroft poured wine from the side table and tapped it at the side of Sherlock’s head. The younger Holmes took it scathingly before finishing it in one gulp. Mycroft drank quietly beside him, “I knew you’d be checking up on me through your eyes. I couldn’t resist the idea any longer, you’ve been MIA for two weeks and you know how that worries me.”

Sherlock ignored the slight shaking of his voice because it was unnoticeable anyway.

“So you decided to make fun of me and send messages through my lenses?”

“I expected you pick up the signs, but a week, Sherlock? That’s such a slow pace. I could’ve died while you shoot up in some ruin I haven’t heard off. Where did you ended up this time?”

Sherlock glared. “You think I’d tell you?”

Mycroft chuckled and took another sip from his glasses. There was a slight pause where Sherlock pressed his palms on his eyes to better adjust in the semi-dark room. Then his older brother was talking again.

“Well, glad to hear you still run towards my direction when you sense I am in an immediate danger. Of course, this is hardly the fifth time you came running and dancing in my hands but the thought that it still works…”

“Then maybe you need to look back in your life and ask yourself why I keep goddamn believing you’re in danger.” Sherlock snapped, full of resentment. “Because your life is a mess, Mycroft! Even my brain can’t fathom when it’s real or not real! Just get someone to sign your death certificate and let me have some peace! _”_

“Did that once,” Mycroft hummed easily, “Didn’t work out for me. I like the sound of my own name.”

“You can change it to _‘Myprick!”_

“Very funny, Sherlock.”

 _“_ Did you hear me, Mycroft? Start fixing your life— _you’re a mess!”_

“Maybe.” Mycroft shrugged. “But I’ll keep utilizing the knowledge if it keeps you coming back from crack dens, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, maybe next time I’ll ignore you.” Sherlock threw the glass he was holding across the room to the carpeted floor where it landed without as much as a sound. Mycroft was only silent beside him. Then Sherlock smacked his face on his hands again and shook his head. “ _Goddamit, I can never get off this pattern, can I?”_

Mycroft smirked in the darkness and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Unless you really cease to care, and brothermine time and again I have been warning you that _‘caring is a not an adv—”_

“Fine.” Sherlock reached up and snatched the bottle of wine from the side table. “Fully aware of that. But stop being a cheat and using your death threats my way to get _your way._ It makes you a total _prick.”_ He took a swig.

“Then I’m a prick all the way.” Mycroft shrugged, joining his brother as he finished his own glass.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you for reading!
> 
> I can still write shorter fics like this in the future. I still feel excited writing this so I don't think I've forgotten Mycroft and Sherlock! I love them as is. But changes have happened recently and I am crying right now because this won't be as frequent.  
> Also, I wrote this to apologize about Bad blood. I had drafted half the story last month but recently reformatted my laptop thinking all my files were safe on my backup. Then realized it was not there. Such an amateur mistake, I know Mycroft, stop scolding me ;D ;D
> 
> I'll try my best to finish the story! I'll work hard to get my head in the game for it! Other than that, I hope you enjoyed this short fic! Thank you for keeping up with me, folks!


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